


Obliviate

by FancyTrinkets



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, First Kiss, First Time, Hands, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Alteration, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19791304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/FancyTrinkets
Summary: Desire flared within him, a corporeal thing. At any other time, he would have turned it off: A figurative tap on the shoulder and whisper in the ear to remind himself thatno, be quiet, this isn't for you. He will never be for you.And even then he'd be left with a dull, persistent ache from his stubborn body, still wanting to make the effort — always for Aziraphale.





	Obliviate

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rating this mature because it doesn't feel explicit to me and I think it best meets the criteria for the mature label. Apologies if I'm wrong. I can change the rating upon request. 
> 
> I've been on a strange new journey with Good Omens. I read the book ages ago, no big deal. Then the TV series destroyed and discorporated me forever. So I'm writing fanfic again, after years of having no active fandoms. And here we are.

_—A.D. 1996—_

"Come on, angel. One miracle each, just like we planned." 

Crowley leaned forward in his chair. A glass of wine sat untouched on the table beside him. This miracle was going to require some serious effort and they needed sobriety if they were actually going to pull it off.

Aziraphale argued, point after stupid point, as to why he wasn't sure anymore. He wondered, couldn't there be other, less drastic ways to handle things. 

But no, there weren't. They'd been over this already. They'd settled it and come to a decision. Crowley, who had been almost exemplary in terms of patience, was now getting seriously frustrated.

"Don't make me grovel and beg at your feet," he said. "It will not be pretty or dignified, but for this, I absolutely will."

Aziraphale looked at him, sizing up his resolve. "It's that important to you?"

"It will keep you safe." 

Aziraphale's troubled expression visibly softened. "All right. I'll go along with it. But under one condition." He raised an index finger for emphasis.

"Yes, what is it then?" Crowley tried to keep his voice steady, but it was no easy feat. He could barely sit still with all this impatience jostling him.

"We both include the loophole as previously discussed," Aziraphale said.

"Yes, all right."

"Promise me you will add it into yours." His voice sounded perfectly kind — but Aziraphale was annoyed. Crowley recognized it layered underneath and baked in together with the kindness.

"Fine, yes," Crowley said.

"Fine yes _what_?" There it was, the heaping measure of annoyance.

"I will add the contingency plan into my demonic miracle." 

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart." Crowley drew a slow _x_ across the sleek front pocket of his tight-fitting black shirt. 

"May Heaven and Hell smite us both if you don't." Aziraphale had never looked more serious. 

There really was no use dawdling over it. Crowley dived right in. "Count down from three, then. Miracles deployed on one."

"Yes, all right, go ahead."

"Three, two..." and at the count of one, Crowley and Aziraphale both snapped their fingers.

☆

The problem had started several months earlier, in June, with a different miracle entirely.

They had just finished lunch, during which they'd had a friendly conversation about assignments and plans. Crowley was thinking about traveling. He'd been falsely taking credit for the impending royal divorce, and he was anticipating some free time once all the papers were signed. The thought of getting away appealed to him. Aziraphale had looked a bit wistful to hear it, but hadn't said much.

As they made their way back to the bookshop, Crowley was sauntering, hands in his pockets, side by side with Aziraphale. He was listening more to the sound of the angel's voice than to the things he was grousing about — customers making a mess of his shop, buying his books, the usual troubles.

A moment later, Crowley realized he'd lost track of Aziraphale and he turned around to see what had happened. Fortunately, nothing much. The angel had stopped on the pavement ten paces back. He was suddenly afraid he'd lost a slip of paper and was diligently worrying over it: checking all his pockets, muttering something about a bookdealer and a phone number and a rare volume of something or other. 

Crowley was about to indulge in a bit of sarcasm about eternity and this insufferable walking pace, but he didn't get the chance. Something more important caught his attention first. And before he'd even thought things through properly, he snapped his fingers, finishing with a flourish towards the street.

Two things happened at once. Aziraphale looked up from his pockets and fixed his gaze on Crowley. Much farther down the road, a speeding car skidded to a halt with a scream of brakes. By sudden demonic intervention, the car had stopped just shy of the crossing. There, a pair of children — who would have been killed when the car hit them — were miraculously still alive.

Crowley immediately shot a silencing glance in Aziraphale's direction. He didn't want to hear the old _you're a good person_ speech, not again — and least of all from an angel who'd just been mulling over the ethics of disappearing every customer who brought an open soft drink into his bookshop.

Mercifully, this time Aziraphale kept quiet. He didn't speak another word until they were back at the bookshop, and even then it was only to ask, "Why don't you come in and have a drink with me?"

Crowley gave in too easily, like always, because everything in the whole universe he'd ever ached for was currently standing there, looking up at him with those hopeful eyes and that gentle, beautiful face.

"All right, yes, let's drink something."

He kept his eyes on Aziraphale while the angel locked the door behind them. Those clothes, so many decades out of style, cloth fraying at the edges, with that palette of creams and browns, that hint of tartan — it was all so much. He wanted to despise it. And he did, truly he did, but he was also stupidly fond of it. 

While Aziraphale went to the back for a bottle of red, Crowley distracted himself from wayward thoughts by wandering through the shop. He paused, now and then, to read the titles of books he didn't recognize or to flick a finger at the flaking leather of a volume in need of repair. He had made it all the way to the far shelves by the time Aziraphale found him.

The angel held two full glasses, but instead of handing over one of them, he kept them close while he looked at Crowley. Aziraphale seemed to be pondering something, some hidden idea turning over and over in his mind. 

"I know you don't like when I call attention to miracles you've done to help someone, so I won't..."

Crowley gave him an incredulous look, trying to convey that, _for fuck's sake, angel, you are literally just now calling attention to it_. But he wasn't annoyed. Not really. And he allowed a smile to linger, almost imperceptible at the corner of his mouth.

"...but I do find myself so filled with gratitude I can barely contain it."

"Oh, not gratitude. Don't go on about that." Crowley's voice was soft, a gentle chiding, delivered entirely for the sake of appearances.

"Then I should phrase it differently." Aziraphale pressed on, intent on fumbling towards whatever point he was trying to make. "The thing is..."

He paused to take a breath, fixed Crowley with a steady gaze, and then continued.

"...every day I've spent with you is better than every other day that goes by without you."

The air around them seemed to hold its breath, or perhaps that was only Crowley, standing there silent and unmoving for the space of several heartbeats.

_Oh._

He didn't have a barb at the ready for that one, no clever words to deflect with. But he felt like he had to do something, so he took off his sunglasses, and then instantly missed them. Perversely, he found himself doing the opposite of putting them back on. He folded them and set them down on the bookshelf, which he was also now leaning against, because it felt good to lean on things. Always a comfort, leaning — especially when experiencing feelings of an uncertain nature.

"Ah, but here's your glass."

Aziraphale moved his left hand forward, offering up the wine. He was doing that smile, the charming one. It was always incredibly distracting.

Crowley reached for the glass and his fingers brushed against Aziraphale's. And because he was doing inexplicable things today, he didn't simply take the wine. Instead, he rested his hand over the top of Aziraphale's. He felt the warmth of his skin, the smooth surface of fingernails. It was nothing, really, just a bit of nonsense to play off as a mistaken placing of the hand. 

But in response, Aziraphale lifted his index finger and drew it gently upward, a slow caress between two of Crowley's fingers. And it was definitely a thing, _definitely_ not accidental.

Crowley blinked and the wine glass was gone, miracled away. Now it was only his hand, free to lace fingers with Aziraphale's till they were clasped together, palm to palm. _What the fuck am I doing?,_ he wondered, but questioning didn't help.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, and it was less like speaking a word, and more like a heavy sigh. 

They looked at each other — more of a gaze really — they gazed at each other, for what seemed like too long, until Aziraphale set aside his own wine glass and took a step closer.

"What about this?" he asked and tilted his head to feather a kiss on Crowley's cheek.

He stepped back and Crowley turned to look at him. _Gorgeous angel_. Barely thinking, he ducked forward and kissed Aziraphale in return — on the lips, very quickly. And then, shocked at himself for what he'd just done, he pulled away. 

Aziraphale reached for him then, with a hand along Crowley's jaw, and drew him close for a different sort of kiss altogether. No quick brush of the lips, this was open-mouthed, breathy and warmth. 

The taste of Aziraphale stole away every other thought he tried to think. And so he had no idea what to do with his hands or the length of his arms. He simply let himself be held, one arm folded between them, hand pressed to Aziraphale's chest, the other arm hanging limply at his side. 

Moments later, Crowley gave in to it. He returned the embrace, his hand sliding along shoulder blade to the back of the neck, tilting Aziraphale's head up to force the kiss deeper. Aziraphale responded with an appreciative sound — a pleasured moan, perhaps, but muffled into Crowley's mouth.

What were they even doing? 

Something human and stupid, that's what seemed to be happening, Crowley thought, based on the thirsting, devouring way they kissed each other; based on the heat and pressure (gentle thrust of the hips!) of Aziraphale against him. But he wasn't even sure he could trust himself to know things anymore. _Impossible_ , he would have thought, and yet, here they were — shuddering against each other with every breath. 

Desire flared within him, a corporeal thing. At any other time, he would have turned it off: A figurative tap on the shoulder and whisper in the ear to remind himself that _no, be quiet, this isn't for you. He will never be for you._ And even then he'd be left with a dull, persistent ache from his stubborn body, still wanting to make the effort — always for Aziraphale, only for Aziraphale. 

But this time, he didn't need to make it stop.

"Come upstairs with me, if you'd like?" It wasn't any sort of joke. Aziraphale was soft of voice and very serious. 

Saying _yes_ felt like giving in to the agreement at the end of a prayer — the whispered amen. Strangely, for a demon, but not so strangely for Crowley, that thought brought a flood of relief. 

Their human bodies held them here, anchored to the earth, but that wasn't all they were. Underneath the surge of hormones and flame of lust, he could feel that other desire. It was an ache of the soul, a yearning to bleed into each other in a mix of not quite angel, not quite demon. It whispered through him, bright like prayer; moved dark like water, welling up from some place deeper, neither Hell nor Heaven. 

It was too much of a mindfuck to rightly understand. Before he could grasp it, the feeling was gone. 

All he had left was the embodied warmth of Aziraphale's hand, fingers laced together once more, leading him upstairs to a small room that Crowley had never seen and hadn't known existed. They stood together, lingering at the edge of a bed and at the brink of something startling in its possibility. 

Aziraphale was almost apologizing. "I haven't ever done this. Have you?"

Crowley shook his head. "Haven't wanted to." Then quietly, barely a whisper, he added, "Except with you."

"Quite right," Aziraphale agreed. That seemed to restore some confidence. He moved in close to reignite their kiss. A short while later, with careful hands, he began the work of undressing both of them.

It wouldn't be practiced, then, this new sort of arrangement, but it also wouldn't be unfamiliar. For a long time they'd been taking care of each other in a collaborative sort of way and figuring out the details as they went along. This was not so different. It felt surprisingly natural and easy to collapse against each other and let the corporeal part take over.

They stayed in bed for days of it. 

That first afternoon stretched into evening, then morning, then night again twice over. After that, they fell into new routines: Leaning together in doorways and against bookshelves, resting together, kissing, holding, pleasuring, sharing more time than they ever had before. Neither of them were thinking about what side they were on or the jobs they were still supposed to be doing. They'd found miracle and temptation enough between them.

It felt really, really good. And so, of course, it couldn't last.

☆

Crowley showed up one evening in late December to find Aziraphale drinking by himself, ashen faced, drowning anxiety glass at a time.

"Gabriel."

Crowley made a face like he'd smelled something rancid. "The worst of them." 

"I wasn't asking your opinion of him. I meant Gabriel was here."

Crowley frowned. He pulled up a nearby armchair and sat on it by way of lounging, his legs thrown over one side. 

"I was at my desk and when I turned around he was right there." Aziraphale pointed to a spot near a bookshelf. "He didn't announce himself. I think he'd been watching me."

"What did he want?"

"He called it a pep talk."

Crowley made a throaty noise of intense dislike, the sound a sneer would make if it were gargling mouthwash. 

"I seem to have skipped some recent reports. I told him I'd been distracted lately."

Crowley laughed.

"He forgave me. And then he went away, thankfully. But it could have been disastrous. What if instead he'd shown up while we were... well, you know."

"Fraternizing?" That same word had hurt him once. Now Crowley offered it up almost fondly, the softest he could have said it.

"Crowley, I love you."

Aziraphale had said it before. Crowley still wasn't accustomed to hearing it.

"We're not sssafe to-" He almost said _love each other_ , but caught himself in time. "Neither of us is safe."

He'd known this all along. Eventually they'd have to return to their senses and go back to the reality of what they were, what they would always be: Figures balanced on opposite sides of an eternally stupid equation.

"I know we aren't safe," Aziraphale said.

"Have you thought about an exit plan?"

"A what?"

"All we'd need is a couple of miracles. We could go back to the way things were six months ago. Clean slate and all that."

"Clean slate? Crowley, what are you suggesting?" 

"We won't even know what we're missing."

Aziraphale's eyes flashed a terrible look. "That can't be what you want!"

It wasn't. But he'd thought about it and hadn't come up with any better ideas. Their standard Arrangement had its dangers, too, but it was so much safer than all the risks they were taking now. 

"There's no talking our way out of it if we get caught." He did his best — albeit terrible — snide impersonation of Aziraphale's voice, " _Hello, Gabriel! No, it's not what it looks like. There's a very good explanation, yes, just give us a thousand years and we'll get back to you on that._ "

He was sitting up now, feet on the floor, using the chair as its maker intended. And he was looking plaintively at Aziraphale, hoping to find understanding in those eyes instead of hurt and betrayal.

Aziraphale wasn't having it. "You can't just wipe away whole months of memory."

"Why not?"

"It wouldn't work. The missing time alone would be upsetting enough to drive one mad."

Crowley had already thought of that. "Who's to say I haven't just woken up after months of sleep? That'd work."

"For you." 

"Yours can be like films."

"Films?" There was no one better at infusing a word with indignance than Aziraphale. He'd been practicing for 6,000 years.

Crowley looked at him. "No, of course you haven't seen _Speed_ , have you?"

Judging by the baffled look on his face, Aziraphale wasn't following.

Crowley sighed. "Forget films. The point is, you replace what's real with a loop of something fake. Memories of typical bookshop _stuff_..." He waved his hand at the room around them. "...whatever it is you do all day." 

"And you think that would work?"

"Could do."

Now Aziraphale was the one to sigh.

"Say, for the sake of argument, we did remove our specific memories of... specific things. Would they have to be gone forever? Couldn't there be a way to bring them back?"

"We wouldn't remember to bring them back." Crowley couldn't help it; his voice was soft, kind. Aziraphale didn't want to forget. That felt fantastic and sad at the same time.

"Don't leave it up to us, then."

Crowley frowned.

Aziraphale went on, excited by this new idea. "Make it something sewn into the fabric of the miracle itself — like a triggering event!"

Crowley thought it over. "So, some weird thing happens and then... _Heyyy, hello there, salacious memories of Aziraphale. Nice to have you back?_ "

"More or less."

"A contingency plan." Crowley always did appreciate those. Clever angel.

"Let's say we don't remember until such a time... as we're safe to."

"Could work. Extra effort though and probably not worth the trouble."

"How so?"

" _This_ ," he gestured to the both of them, "will never be safe."

Aziraphale frowned. "One never knows."

At some point after that, the conversation switched from a mere hypothetical to an actual plan. And so, late that night they found themselves sitting down, pouring themselves each a glass of wine, and leaving it untouched.

Sobriety was better for a complicated miracle. The wine was for context afterwards: _What were we just doing? Oh right, having a drink at Aziraphale's._

They'd each worked out the details of their own miracle, angelic and demonic respectively. And now, thinking on it, Crowley didn't feel so badly about it after all. He'd started out, perhaps, from a sorry place of resignation and hopelessness, but now it just felt like another of their shared plans. They were in it together. 

Aziraphale nearly got cold feet, of course, but he came around again with a bit of coaxing.

When it was time, Crowley counted down from three and then, with a snap of the fingers, they both sent themselves reeling into freshly reworked memories.

☆

_—Present day—_

They raised their glasses to the world and it was also a toast to each other. The champagne was a delight; the food was as good as the company they shared, which meant it was nothing short of excellent. And then, for dessert — almost by perfect accident — a combination angel/devil cake had found its way onto the menu.

Aziraphale ordered that. When it arrived, he started in on the chocolate, savoring a bite, letting the fork slide between his lips a little longer than necessary.

The second bite never made it to his mouth. He dropped the fork, sent it clattering to the plate and across the table. His eyes had gone wide, mouth ever so slightly agape. An instant later, he raised that stunned look to Crowley and stared at him.

Crowley cast him a look, not sure what to make of it. "Brimstone aftertaste?" 

"I seem to have remembered something, that's all." He turned his gaze to the dropped fork and reached for it.

"Important something?"

"Hmm? Yes. But several years ago. 1996, in fact." He smiled to himself as he started in on dessert once more.

Crowley pressed him on it. "A secret, is it?"

But Aziraphale wouldn't say anything further about it. 

When the waiter brought their check, Aziraphale asked, "You will come back to the bookshop, won't you? And have a drink with me?"

"How is that a question? Getting drunk with you is the only plan." Crowley snapped his fingers. "The Bentley's waiting outside."

"Would you mind so terribly if we were to walk."

"Walk?" Crowley repeated the word as if the concept itself were a mystery.

"Perhaps you didn't notice," Aziraphale gestured at his dessert plate, where now only crumbs remained. "But I _dropped_ a bite of cake. Delicious cake. That is how shocked I was by... well, by everything I've just remembered."

"We need to walk because you dropped a bit of cake?" The non sequitur wasn't making any sense to Crowley.

"I can't explain, but sometime later this evening you're going to remember it also. And if you'd like us both to avoid an untimely discorporation, it's better if you're not _driving_ when it happens."

"It's something bad?"

"No. It isn't bad. I just can't tell you."

"I can't imagine what." Crowley was casting his thoughts back and coming up with absolutely nothing significant. "I don't even think I woke up for 1996."

Aziraphale frowned and started to say something, then shut his mouth and shot him a look of concern that Crowley had no idea how to interpret. 

"Then again, you might not remember it. I really have no way of knowing." 

Aziraphale seemed distressed. But whatever was wrong, it melted away and they fell into easy conversation again on their way to the bookshop.

Crowley had to admit, the walk felt good — or perhaps what actually felt good was the part where the world hadn't ended and both of them were still here. And neither of them had a head office now, so they didn't have to be on opposite sides of anything at all.

He was smiling towards Aziraphale when he heard it, a sound like the snapping of fingers. He turned, scanning the street for the source, but saw nothing. And then, he reeled. His vision went dark.

In his mind's eye, he saw a lock box in a dark corner that he hadn't even known was there. All the many locks had just been zapped undone by the lightning-clap miracle of that unseen hand. Memories, a staggering lot of them, were rising to the forefront, demanding all his attention. 

The first were little more than a blur of feelings and sensation. The warmth of sunlight and the softness of a bed that wasn't his own. Waking suffused with joy, despite the damp of sweat and the discomfort of an elbow shoved against his ribs. 

The next were more distinct. Holding Aziraphale's hand while sitting on his sofa, drinking wine, and comparing the efficacy of wings, angels to hummingbirds. Or leaning back against the Bentley on a moonless night away from the city, looking up at the stars with Aziraphale beside him, so close that their sides were touching. Reminiscing about constellations and mythology, then laughing together, and later still, drawing each other near and kissing.

Other things than kissing. He saw the two of them, delighting together over an obscure book Aziraphale had retrieved from a back corner of his shop. It was old and explicit, full of plate engravings, etched fine, showing human men together in all manner of compromising poses. "The one on page 130," Aziraphale said, flipping pages then pointing.

"Oh, angel, that's a scandal." His own voice in reply was whispered breath to Aziraphale's skin. He was leaning into him, sinuous and lithe. "And look at their faces. All lit up like yours does."

Those bright eyes, that smile, angelic and devious in the same instant. He could see Aziraphale holding the book for reference, crowding him, naked, against the wall. He could feel the memory of it: intimacy, desire, Aziraphale stroking into him until the book was forgotten, until both of them fell together, sliding to the floor, undone with the pleasure of it.

For every serious, intense sort of memory, there were dozens of ridiculous ones. Laughing, bickering, leaving to get a short break from each other, returning not long after.

A memory of the phone ringing, of Aziraphale calling him back. "Where are you?"

"What do you need, angel?"

"Stop it. You know what."

"We've been at this for four months. How is it possible that you're still shy about all the words that mean _fucking_?"

"I just don't like them. Are you on your way or not?"

"Yes, be there in a minute."

Ridiculous. Beautiful. And so many of them: A flood of memories, settling in, slotting themselves properly to their rightful place in time. 

Remarkably, it all seemed to happen in an instant. When Crowley's vision dimmed at the start of it, he flailed sideways, nearly crashing into the lighted window of a nearby shop. He was alert again a second later with enough time to catch himself. Aziraphale was right there, too, with strong hands to steady him, eyes full of concern and care.

With the angel bracing him, Crowley could feel the spasm of a soft chuckle move through Aziraphale's chest and belly.

"Hits you out of nowhere, doesn't it?" he said. That brilliant smile of his was up close, just as it had been in memory.

Crowley grinned back at him. "You doubted me."

"What? No." Aziraphale denied it.

"You did. You thought I left out the whole... undoing."

"Well, I may have worried."

"Yeah." Crowley laughed. "Doesn't matter. Glad I didn't go first. With all that remembering."

The sun had gone down and darkness settled around them as they resumed their walk. Crowley was quiet. Several gnawing doubts and questions had just been resolved by the influx of new-old memories. If he was being quite honest, he didn't have a solid handle on what to think or say or do about it.

Aziraphale saved him further troubles, at least for now, by bubbling into friendly conversation once again as they arrived at the bookshop. 

"I will say, once mine came undone, it was difficult not telling you."

He held the door for Crowley to enter the shop ahead of him. Aziraphale followed.

"I wouldn't have believed you," Crowley said. "For all I knew, I slept through 1996."

"Well." Aziraphale lifted his right hand, and the door locked itself behind him. The blinds came down. "Slept your _way_ through it, more like."

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but all the words had left him. He stood there, smiling at Aziraphale with his fool mouth open.

Aziraphale gazed back at him fondly. "Shall we... pick up that thread where it left off?"

The only answer was _yes_. If either of them had ever come up with a better idea than that one, Crowley couldn't remember it.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Aziraphale/Crowley is everything to me right now and I'm certain my writing could never do it justice. But I delight in writing them nonetheless.
> 
> There's so much amazing fanfic out there and it's been fantastic to read as much as I can. Initially, I didn't prefer anything that had sexual content for these two unless it was like a metaphysical occult union or something. 
> 
> I don't really know what changed that for me or why it did, but now I'm all in on the explicit stuff. I almost feel a need to apologize for not getting more explicit with this one. I'm just not there yet, in the writing of it. Maybe that will change, too. I have no idea.


End file.
